Two Halves Make A Whole
by Cookies-and-Ink
Summary: Osiris - a rebel, kleptomaniac, pyromaniac and troublemaker. Can she truly help Harry like Dumbledore thinks and more importantly how's she going to survive going to a school full of magic never mind teenage hormones? Then there's the war to think about... Not your typical O.C story, full of drama and with a heavy focus on character relationships. Enjoy! Warning: M for a reason!
1. Chapter 1 - Revelations

**A/N: **This story was originally created by The Royal Scribe, all the credit for creating our truly wonderful protagonist goes to her. 'Two Halves Make A Whole' is now being written as a collaboration between the both The Royal Scribe and I after I fell in love with Osiris and couldn't get this story out of my head.

As always, please read and review :)

**Chapter One - Revelations**

Albus Dumbledore surveyed the young woman before him. She stared right back, idly drumming her fingers in a pattern that displayed the intense emotions rolling through her, just beneath the surface. Her forefinger fell against her knee, followed by her other three digits, her little finger against her ripped jeans resulting in the cycle starting over again. It was almost as if she was following a beat that only she could hear and from what he had been told of her upbringing it would not surprise him. She had been disregarding the rules set down by the Matron since her very first day of attendance – although given the nature of the institution in which she'd been kept perhaps attendance wasn't quite the right word. The conventions commonly followed by the majority of the muggle world had also been bastardised long beforehand. Indeed, her stony expression, undermined only slightly by her nervous tick, gave almost nothing away of the various difficulties plaguing her. He had been warned against seeing her by several of the braver staff members: they had told him about her uncontrollable kleptomania and her strange fascination with fire, told him of her strange manner and dress sense, her abrasive personality and her dislike of the other girls. Then of course there was the fact that she had been raised in the most secure of the Ministry's homes for the magically dangerous and mentally unstable. As far as he could tell Marigold House seemed more like a prison than an orphanage and if the rumours were true he dreaded to think of her upbringing.

He didn't allow it to deter him, however, for Albus Dumbledore had always loved a challenge.

Her nails had been left unpainted, and were frayed and uneven- the result of another nervous tick, no doubt. Albus allowed a small smile onto his face: he had also been a nail biter in his youth, usually brought on by the end of year exams. On her feet, covering the bottom of her ripped, slightly grubby jeans, lay a pair of black leather boots adorned with straps of the same, expensive material and held together with intricately crafted metal buckles. While they suited her, he could not help but suspect that they were, in fact, stolen. From what he had been told, the girls were not allowed much spending money and he doubted that the young lady before him had either the patience or the time to save for such an expensive pair of boots. She even wore them in a manner that suggested her lack of ownership: the way she held herself, the way her legs stretched out from her chair made Albus think that she was, in fact, triumphantly flaunting her acquisition of them, and that no one in a position of authority had removed them from her. Her jacket, too, was formed from the same, expensive, leather, but Albus could clearly see that it wasn't stolen, or, at least, it meant more to her than merely acquiring a valuable pair of boots did. She seemed to have possessed it for some time: in places, especially the cuffs and hem of the jacket, the leather was scuffed or scratched- even discoloured in some places. The right arm was dotted with small holes, and the bottom of the left side seemed to have been burnt- likely an accident involving the young woman's experiments with fire. It spoke of pivotal experiences and was obviously of some sentimental value to her.

Her hazel eyes, still locked on him, seemed to flicker with different shades of orange, reminiscent of the fire she remained so fond of, despite the removal of all objects that had the remotest chance to burst into flame under her skilled hand. The Matron had told him that the staff often complained of her ability to create a fire out of thin air, magic much too powerful for an untrained witch to conjure. Some of the other staff he had been told, had wanted to put binds on her magic when she was younger. Thankfully for her sake and for his purpose here they had refrained. Above her eyes lay two eyebrows, one of which had a small scar running through it that prevented it from becoming whole. The other happened to be slightly uneven, too, seeming to be stuck at a slightly higher angle than the scarred one. It resulted in a perpetual air of lightly derisive sarcasm about her, although it wasn't unpleasant to behold: on the contrary, it seemed to suit what he knew of her.

Albus was most distracted by her hair, however. It was shaved close to her skull, leaving only, perhaps, a fifth of an inch covering the back and sides of her head. The top and fringe, however, had been left long, and had been gelled into what Albus wanted to call a pompadour-a fashionable style in his youth- although her hair was so messy and uncontrolled that it held no determinable shape, and was instead just a random mass of ebony spikes and impromptu curls atop her head.

"What do you want, then?" She asked. He decided to ignore her rudeness, and merely raise an eyebrow, inviting her to expand on her question, or at least ask it in a politer manner.

"Snape, I think he said his name was. He said I was too much of a danger to society to be allowed in."

Albus stiffened, failing to completely mask his surprise. "Most curious indeed: he told me that you had decided against attending."

"Either way, I didn't matter any more At most, I was a small disappointment until you forgot about it and moved onto something more deserving of your time. So, again, what do you want? Why did you remember me, of all people?"

Albus paused, realising that she was indeed, as the Matron had said, oddly intuitive and she certainly had charisma. Idly, he wondered if she had developed it as a way to escape trouble. Few weapons could be as devastating or effective as words. Realising that, he had to consider his own very carefully. Fortunately, being head of the Wizengamot, it was a skill he was most proficient in.

"Because, quite simply, your life is in danger." He stated simply.

"Explain." She responded, in an equally blunt manner.

He did so, settling himself more comfortably in his chair before he began: it was a rather heavy tale, after all.

James Potter sat alone in a corner of a muggle bar. It wasn't even the one that he often frequented with his friends. It had been a split second decision, one made in the wake of a terrible day. He had just learned about a prophecy concerning Harry, his beautiful baby boy. A beautiful baby boy who, according to Dumbledore, was one of either two children destined to defeat Voldemort, or die at his hands. Worse still, was that Voldemort knew about the prophecy, or part of it at least. It was clear that they would need to go into hiding- at that very moment, he was supposed to be searching through the Potter holdings, finding a secure place for his family. Instead, he was nursing an unpleasantly warm beer within a bar that had clearly seen better days. Part of him was screaming out, commanding him to leave and search for a safe haven, for Lily and Harry. However, he was struggling to battle through apathy, and he doubted that a beer or two in order to help him manage his stress levels would do him too much harm.

It was after returning from the bathroom that he started to suspect that something was wrong. His eyes weren't connecting with his brain: he felt like he knew exactly what was wrong, but couldn't see what it was. Every time he thought he came close, it danced away from him, into the steady stream of cigarette smoke that filled the dingy pub. He decided to finish his pint and leave.

He managed to drain his glass perfectly fine, but when it came to actually vacating his chair, he found himself stuck. It was as if he was under the body bind curse, except- his eyes widened behind his glasses with the dawning realisation- whatever was keeping him there had been ingested through his drink. He was wedged into a singular position, his hand wrapped around his empty glass and his other arm beside him on the chair. He cursed himself for not noticing the stiffening in his muscles, or the increased difficulty he had experienced when raising the glass to his lips. He desperately tried to clench his fingers together, but managed nothing, the smooth glass taunting him. He couldn't believe it: he was going to be murdered in a pub he shouldn't have been in, by the very enemies he was trying to protect his family from. When Lily followed him into death, as she no doubt would without adequate protection, she was going to be furious with him. Never had James desperately pleaded for the lack of a God, or for there to be a God to help him from his own folly. He deftly ignored the contradiction of his desires: he was about to be murdered, he deserved to be cut a little slack. Then again, spending eternity in an afterlife with an infuriated Lily would be suitable punishment for wishing there wasn't a God, if, in fact, there was one.

Plucking him deftly from wondering why he was philosophising on the existence of God when in a life or death situation, a young woman slid into the seat next to him. She rearranged his limbs so that it appeared as if she was supporting him, and started to lead him towards the stairs. He suddenly understood exactly what was going on and struggled against the drug that locked him in place. It was futile: he had sealed his fate with his first step into the pub. He couldn't even scream for help as she roughly pulled him into her rented room and started to have her way with him.

And all James could do was silently apologise to his wife and child as he lay there, immobile, hating that one particular part of his anatomy seemed immune to the drug and had become as stiff and rigid as every other muscle in his body despite his wish that it had remained unaffected. What later followed was certainly not consensual, but he still felt the guilt clawing at him as frantically as the woman's hands that tore away his clothes and claimed their prize.

"Alright, so James Potter got raped and was killed by Voldemort a year later, alongside his wife and baby Harry who somehow reflected a curse back at Voldemort that killed him. Yeah, I know that story I'm not completely cut off from society and yeah, it's awful, but what has that got to do with my life being in danger?"

"To put it simply, Voldemort has returned as you no doubt know and he will either kill you, or subject you to a punishment that would leave you begging for the former."

"Why?" She exploded, standing abruptly. The chair, ignored by both of them, clattered to the floor.

"Voldemort is still hunting Harry Potter, believing him to be the child of the prophecy. He will exploit any weakness he can to wear him down, as evidenced by his use of Sirius Black as the spring for a carefully prepared trap just before the close of the school term."

He paused, taking a deep breath.

"You would be another perfect example of Voldemort's desired bait, as you are Harry's half-sister."

Silence. Outside, a child screamed, perhaps the victim of a childish prank, before falling silent too. Even the birds seemed to stop singing, as if they too had some concept of the tension within the small bedroom.

"You're not seriously suggesting that-" a glance at Albus' unsmiling visage "-shit!"

"Yes," Dumbledore stated with a small grin, unsure of how the girl was taking the new revelation, "I believe that 'shit' sums up the situation most admirably."

"You do realise that he may not accept you instantaneously? I'm sure that, even if he indulged in fantasies of having a sibling, they would not be quite as rebellious as you are in both your dress and your actions."

"It'll be fine."

"Will it?" Dumbledore asked, removing his wand from her trouser pocket. "I will return in a week to see how you fare, then."

"Sure, see you then."

A few seconds after the crack of Dumbledore's apparition, Osiris Potter- she never liked Osiris Hughes anyway- made her way towards the door of number four Privet Drive, pocketed one of the fresh, full milk bottles that had been placed on the doorstep not twenty minutes earlier, and knocked sharply on the frame four times.


	2. Chapter 2 - Reactions

**AN:** Thank you to all those who favourited/followed and reviewed Chapter One, we appreciate it and hope you enjoy the next chapter.

* * *

**Chapter Two - Reactions**

'Alright,' Osiris thought to herself, as she weighed a decorative garden gnome in her hand, 'so it wasn't the best first impression I've ever given. Or received, actually.'

She sat against a small tree opposite a rather large, curtain clad window. She assumed it was the living room, from the dull tones of a news reporter floating out of the miniscule cracks between the window and the wall. She had been raised away from the muggle world, for obvious reasons, but she had heard the news before: the Matron often carried an old fashioned radio around with her that never seemed to lose its signal. She knew that Muggles loved the news, and often watched it on large screens in rooms they spent most of their time in, hence the room becoming known as a 'living room'. At least, that was what Matron had said in their compulsory classes.

Idly, she tossed the garden gnome into the air, caught it as it fell, and repeated the motions over and over again. It was a habit born of her hatred of sitting still; she had never relished the confinement of her rooms and despite the fact that she had the whole world to explore around her; she was stuck amidst the yellowing grasses of one singular garden, her prison easily marked by the myriad of perfectly formed flowers bordering the property.

It came naturally - indeed, Osiris almost did it without thought beforehand- to toss the tasteless decoration at the window with enough force to shatter it. It was still, despite how easily it did come to her, almost without thought- she did boost it with enough raw magic that it flew faster than it normally would: after all, why would she want to get up from her comfy seat and actually throw the gnome, rather than blast it away from her with an idle flick of her wrist?

Of course, despite how she wanted to pretend she was a fully-fledged wandless super magician, her magic was raw and untrained, and it often had unintended consequences. Most wizards and witches, at Osiris' age, had a grasp on their own power, they could consciously decide how much to power their spells, and manipulate the effect, if they had the drive. For Osiris, using her magic was akin to using a standard light switch, it only had an on and an off setting. While it would also generally do what she wanted, too, it would also find a way to misbehave. Osiris wasn't wholly sure if the magic actually acted on her subconscious desires, or merely wreaked havoc on the whim of a higher power. Ironically, Osiris was certain that if it was at the behest of a higher being, its commands on her magic often lined up with her own subconscious desires.

Taking the fact that her magic was at full power, and her magic's troublemaking streak into account, Osiris was in no way surprised when the garden gnome, upon clearing the now shattered window, burst into an explosion of multi-coloured confetti that attached itself to every nearby surface. The accompanying upbeat jingle, Osiris decided, was just overkill.

It was only after stepping through the remains of the window, the glass crunching underneath her heavy combat boots that she realised that the large lump that she had previously thought of as a cushion was quivering and squeaking in terror. It was a boy, and a rather rotund one at that. He had caught the brunt of the confetti, and it lay splayed out across his front. His face had managed to avoid most of the confetti, as his stomach had blocked most of them from spiralling upwards.

Following the trail of confetti, she noticed his hands clenched around the garden gnome. It took her a moment longer to process that the garden gnome was firmly wedged between his legs, crushing a rather integral and sensitive part of his anatomy.

Glad that she had established the cause of his distress, she patted him on the head, and exited out of the room, sidling past the pale and horrified lady who had so rudely answered the door to her earlier. The woman seemed frozen in shock and Osiris ignored her completely. After the way the woman had looked at her when she'd knocked and then the ensuing argument Osiris couldn't help but think that the horse faced lady was getting off lightly. She hesitated, unsure of where to go and then decided to investigate the noise of the news to see if Matron had been truthful in her description of the talking screen for lack of another option.

The sound of a door closing upstairs distracted her and she twisted around to see a boy standing at the top of the stairs. He walked down eyeing her warily and she took a moment to assess him. Messy hair, skinny, ill-fitting clothes - he looked like he would fit in back at the institute not that he was living in this picture perfect house that smelt like cleaning supplies.

They stared at each other for a while, him standing on the last step and Osiris crossed her arms, the boy mimicking her subconsciously. She felt a flicker of surprise as she saw not the look of contempt that so often came when people looked at her but instead he cocked his head to the side, simply curious.

She was guessing that this was Harry Potter, the famous Harry Potter and her half-brother. He was something of a disappointment Osiris thought to herself, he had dark rings around his eyes and hair that was perhaps even messier than her. The word 'unkempt' sprang to mind, one of Matron's favourites. He had plenty of magic though, Osiris would give him that. She could always feel it in the air, magic made her skin crackle and all the hairs were raised on her arms just by being a few feet away.

There was a scream from the kitchen and both of them snapped their heads towards it.

"You freakish little bitch what on earth have you done to my darling boy? My kitchen?"

"She won't come into my room, come on. Best to be out of the path of danger."

The boys voice was hoarse as though he hadn't talked for a while, a sensation that Osiris knew well and she looked at him, her eyes wide. No one had ever looked out for her before, everyone she knew was content to throw her to the wolves if on the rare occasion they didn't want to hurt her themselves.

He shrugged at her blank look, turning on his heel to go up the stairs taking them two at a time. The woman screamed again and Osiris, whilst she knew she could handle herself, wasn't stupid enough to not take an escape route when offered so she followed him up and into a bedroom, if it could be called that considering there was clothes, junk and rubbish everywhere with barely a bed in sight.

"Sorry" Harry said "Not many people come in here. No one, really." he added and Osiris shrugged.

"I've seen worse."

He grabbed a pile of clothes off a chair and shoved it into the battered wardrobe before gesturing her to it. There was an moment of silence as Osiris spun around in the chair several times until she got dizzy. Harry was watching her, his green eyes sharp and she dragged her feet on the floor to stop herself.

"What?"

"I don't even know your name." Harry said with raised eyebrows his arms folded across his chest.

"Osiris" she said, a little affronted by the way he was assessing her.

"I thought when I heard you talking downstairs that you might have been Dudley's girlfriend but I'm guessing that's not true."

"Dudley?"

"My cousin. Fat, blonde hair. Really very fat. Aunt Petunia seemed to think you'd done something to him."

"Oh right, that." Oiris wrinkled her nose. "Definitely not his girlfriend."

She grinned at some inside joke and Harry felt familiar anger rising up inside. He'd given her plenty of opportunity to tell him who she was and why she was here in the Dursley's house looking more out of place than Harry ever would and yet she was sitting there spinning around in his chair not phased by anything.

"Why are you here?" he asked bluntly and she stopped abruptly, her body jerking to look at him in surprise, hazel eyes wide before her expression went blank.

"Thought you knew. I'm your half-sister."

Osiris watched the expressions flicker across his face and as he took a breath before he stammered out that it was impossible, that she was lying she couldn't help but think that Dumbledore was a bit of a bastard. She'd assumed he'd at least told Harry that he had a half – sister and she'd be living with him. At least that explained why the horse – faced woman had reacted so violently when Osiris had asked where her room was.

"Are you insane?!"

He had been yelling with a mix of astonishment and fury. She'd ignored all of it, slightly bored by his dramatics but asking her if she were insane made her snap her head around, staring at him with sharply narrowed eyes. The expression of cold fury made Harry stop, the hairs on his neck raising.

"Don't ever call me crazy." Osiris hissed lowly. "Albus Dumbledore came to see me yesterday and told me I had to come here, to stay with you because I was in danger. Your father – our father – James Potter was drugged and attacked by some woman. I don't know who she was but that doesn't really matter. If it helps you any it wasn't consensual and when she gave birth to me she gave me up at the nearest possible moment.

I've managed to get out, I'm going to Hogwarts next year and only because I'm your half sister. You think I want to be here, in this house which smells like a hospital staying with you looking at me like I'm dirt? Or do you think I'm looking forward to going to a school which will just be full the same bullshit as always?

Fuck you Harry Potter." she snarled, beyond angry now as she thought about everything that had happened which was out of her control. "If you don't want to believe me then fine, you don't have to. But I'm telling the truth you bastard!"

She threw her arms in the air and felt the magic crackle around her before it left her violently causing her to sway on her feet. Harry's eyes rolled to the back of his head and he fell to the floor in a heap as her magic rushed through him. She felt it wrap around him and then go inside him which was bizarre, that had never happened before.

Sighing and pulling out her bottle of milk she'd been keeping in her pocket from earlier this morning she pulled the foil cover off and took several sips, staring at Harry and wondering when he'd wake up. It was just a guess but judging by how her magic had reacted she didn't think he was just unconscious. That made her nervous, she never really knew what her magic was going to do and if it was doing something to Harry – well she'd just have to see how he was when he woke up and do damage control then.

She straightened him out so he was on his back and then threw herself on his bed, grabbing a transfiguration textbook to occupy herself, the bottle of milk in her other hand. All she'd have to do was wait.


End file.
